


untitled

by myhowellslester



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I don't know how to tag properly, I'm Sorry, M/M, Writer AU, bookshop au, snowbaz au, snowbaz writer au, writer!baz
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 11:09:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24968740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myhowellslester/pseuds/myhowellslester
Summary: Baz is a writer. He writes about love without actually believing in it - but when one of his characters, Simon Snow, suddenly seems to have become real, he starts questioning his world view.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 9
Kudos: 16





	1. prologue - aurora

**aurora // prologue**

My feelings for you... you wouldn't understand them, even if I tried to explain them. Your blue eyes, somehow matching both the summer sky and the clearest ocean, and those bronze curls that always reflect the light ever so beautifully; those are the things I call home. I know I'm full of clichés, but so are we.

Being with you is easy, so easy, and it feels like watching the sun rise on a summer day. There is a certain comfort that lies within the warm colours of the morning sky, just like I can find comfort in holding your hand, or in looking into your eyes - hope comes with every time the sun rises, and so it does every time I wake up next to you. Hope for a life together with you. A life worth living, a life that makes sense, a life that makes me want to smile on my deathbed. Because I will know we were happy, and that I was happy, and because I will know I've made the right choices.

You are the reason I started to understand why people would want to live forever.

God knows we're both fucked up. But you are my world, my life, my everything, and loving you is easy. Probably the easiest thing I've ever done.

You're asleep right now, love, and you're so beautiful. I'm sat here, wondering if you're aware how I feel about you. I really hope you know. Because when your eyes meet mine, I know it's two world's colliding, and I can feel it. I can feel it all deep inside of me, the warmth, the strength, everything that comes with your touch. Then you kiss me, and I go insane; because your lips create sparks on mine, and suddenly my body feels like the night sky on the Fourth of July.

Candle lights fill most of our nights. I can see how the soft shine reflects on your skin and casts shadows across all the right places. Then I look at you, and I'm fascinated. Your chest moves up and down slowly, while your seemingly effortless beauty makes my heart beat faster.

I love all the little things about you, things that you might have never noticed. They make me want to stare at you all day, because hell, you're so goddamn gorgeous. When you smile it feels like the whole room brightens up a little; or it might as well just do, I wouldn't notice, because the light couldn't compare to you.

Everyone can tell how I feel about you, because even if I tried, I couldn't hide it. I get lost in you and all that you are, because I'm yours. I'm all yours, and every time I look at you, I know it shouldn't be any other way. Because we belong together, and this is how things are supposed to be. We are supposed to be so lovesick, so attached, so in love. We are supposed to be, and honestly, I wouldn't want it any other way.

Ever thine, ever mine, ever ours. Sometimes it's easy as that.

\- excerpt from an untitled novel, written by T.B. Grimm-Pitch

❞

**aurora (n)**  
the first appearance of light in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! so... i haven't written in literal years, so this feels a little weird. writing used to be this all-consuming thing that i did, to the point where i wrote a fanfiction with more words than prisoner of azkaban that, up to this day, can still be found somewhere on the internet. anyway... i hope you enjoyed this? this used to be a phan au that i started writing three years ago on *shudders* wattpad. and i know i'm late, but i have fallen in love with simon and baz and their relationship quite recently, and they have given me the desire to write again, which is why i'm revisiting this au - snowbaz edition. i'm so nervous about posting this, but i hope there's some people out there that might like this. thanks for reading!


	2. hiraeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet Baz Pitch, the most romantic guy (that doesn't even believe in love) you'll ever know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw // cigarettes; mentions of homophobic family (nothing graphic)

**hiraeth //**

I mostly write about love.

I guess you could call me a writer - stupidly romantic and trying very hard to be poetic. Turning feelings into words is what I can do best; Ebb always says I'm an artist, and my canvas is other people's minds, where I draw pictures with the mere help of the right words (though, to be honest, that metaphor is a bit overdramatic for my liking. And there isn't a lot of things that I, a hopeless gay romantic and penniless writer, would call 'overdramatic').

But everything I write is fictional. Love... a fictional concept. Sure, I've seen it happen to other people because they fall in love all the time, and annoying wannabe love-at-first-sight-couples are everywhere, but I can't do that. Not anymore. Because at this point, I'm actually convinced that love is this thing that was made up so Hollywood could sell it to us, something to hold on to so people have a reason to live, much like a religion.

Considering this, maybe I'm an atheist.

Sure, lust is undeniably a thing, and I guess you can like some people better than others (I certainly do). But that unconditional love trope we see in the movies all the goddamn time as if it's the only thing humans are able talk about... it's an illusion, a lie people tell themselves so life seems less pointless (because, if we're being honest, life is pretty fucking pointless). 

It's fictional, just like mages, vampires, or dragons.

...Yet I can't help but long for it; the comfort of being held by someone loved, someone worth dying for, and someone that returns those strong emotions. So, I guess I'm writing about a wish. I wish I could believe in love the way everyone around me does, I really do. Maybe life would make a little more sense then.

But I'm hopeless and long lost in the dark pits of cynicism and loneliness.

I'm turning 21 soon, and I'm sat in my flat somewhere in grey London, on a windowsill with a lit cigarette between my lips. I'm thinking about the characters. My characters.

It's not like anyone else cares. My works keep getting turned down by all publishers I've contacted so far, and I have slowly begun to lose hope (Ha, 'begun'. I have lost hope a long time ago. When? Oh, I don't know, maybe when my mum died right in front of my eyes. Or maybe when my father kicked me out of our house after I came out to him. The list goes on).

A few years ago, I'd thought it was a good idea to take a creative writing course at university. But now, instead of having a proper career, I'm a college drop-out with a nicotine-addiction and a minimum-wage-job while drowning in my thousands of pounds of debt that university has brought upon me.

Writing is my passion, though I think I might be at a point where it seems, well, pointless to even try anymore, but what doesn't these days? I keep reading the word 'depression' when I'm googling my symptoms (never google your symptoms), and I don't think that's it, because my life isn't that bad, right? But whatever it is, it's taking a toll on me. And all I do is keep writing about feelings I have never really felt, living through other people's descriptions and narrations and making it seem like they are my own.

I take one last drag of my cigarette and exhale the smoke right after. I watch it merge with the raindrops falling from the grey sky that, by the way, perfectly matches the colour of my eyes and reflects my mood, before the smoke eventually vanishes completely. With one move, I rose from the windowsill and place the remnant of the cigarette in an ashtray placed beside me.

I know I was going to be late for work. But it isn't like I could do much about it at this point anyway, so I don't rush. I take my time to put on my coat and shoes, and then put on my headphones so I could listen to Dave Gahan's soothing voice.

The rain falls down on me, however, I don't mind too much. It's only a short walk down the street to the next bus station. The tube is faster, but also more expensive, and I'm used to the long bus rides at this point.

I like my work. Sure, it could probably pay better, and sure, it isn't a dream job, but I like it. My boss, Ebb, is a grey-haired chubby woman in her early sixties, and always has a smile on her lips when she sees me, even though she's a little melancholy from time to time. To me, she's something like a grandma.

Once I enter the old little bookshop, I hear Ebb grumbling, "You're late again," without sounding too angry, and I smile at her tone.

"I'm sorry," I say.

"My old ass is sorry," Ebb grunts, and I can't help but chuckle at her words. "I'm gonna leave now," she then says, "Jennifer will join you in about an hour, alright? Don't burn the shop down with your goddamn cigarettes."

I smile at her gently and roll my eyes. "I don't smoke inside buildings. Have you ever seen me do that?"

"Hm," is all Ebb mutters in response while she reaches for her coat. "You promised me new chapters this week."

"Don't worry, I'm working on them."

After Ebb had found out that I was into writing, she asked me if she could read some of my work. I had refused at first (partially because everything I write is kind of gay and I was worried she wouldn't... like that), but eventually gave in and showed her some of what I had written. Now, I always let her read what I've written recently, and that includes new chapters of my yet to be titled novel. It isn't the first novel I've worked on - the third, actually - but so far it might be the one I'm proudest of, even though I never really allow myself to feel proud of anything I write.

"You better are. I can't wait."

Ebb looks at me one more time, smiles, and finally turns to leave the shop, leaving me all by myself.

I get comfortable behind the counter, carelessly leaning against it. I've really been getting into the new book by one of my favourite authors, but I am only a few pages in and eager to read more. 

So when a new customer walks in, I don't notice immediately. I don't notice the sound of the footsteps, I don't even notice the tingle of the little bell hanging above the door.

(Or maybe I ignore it all on purpose... I never claimed that I'm good at this job.)

"Uh, excuse me?"

Not bothering to close the book in front of me, I look up at the sound of a young man's voice, and my own grey eyes meet with bright blue ones. "Yeah?" I say, and the guy came closer to the counter.

Okay, maybe I am allowing myself to stare at this guy just a little. But don't blame me - this guy looks like he stepped straight out of a coming-of-age-novel. My coming-of-age-novel. The resemblance to the protagonist is mind-blowing.

I wait for him to talk.

"Uh... I'm looking for this book. I don't know if you have it in stock, though."

I, still embarrassingly fascinated, feel my eyebrows furrow slightly in an attempt to focus on my work. "What book exactly?" I ask, and the guy smiles lightly. A gorgeous smile, and I hate myself for it, but my knees feel a little weak. Chill.

"It's called 'The Anatomy of Being'," he then answers, and I nod. That book happens to be one of my favourites. "Let me check," I mumble as I type the title into the computer. I could've just checked the shelf, the bookshop really isn't that big, but... "Yeah, seems like we still have it in stock. Good choice, by the way."

"You've read it?" He doesn't look surprised.

"Yeah, it's a good read."

The guy chuckles, and a single bronze curl falls into his face. "Well, sadly, I'm not buying it for myself." I look at him before leaving my spot behind the counter to find the book he had asked for.

"Oh, let me guess," I say and grin. "Your... aunt."

"No." He chuckles, which looks good on him.

I smile back. "Your sister?"

"Don't have one."

"Dammit. Your girlfriend, then?" I ask, hoping I'm not being too obvious. I can't help himself. This guy is giving me a vibe. The vibe.

"Not... really my expertise," the stranger states with a chuckle, which I take as a confirmation for my assumption, even though his statement could probably mean anything. "I'm buying it for a friend."

"Oh," I mumble and look at him, and I could feel the curiosity radiate off of me. "So, you're not into poetry, hm?"

"Depends," the guy says and shrugs.

I find the book and pull it out of the shelf. "On what?" I ask and awkwardly hand the book to him. Awkwardly because he doesn't seem to realise that I'm handing it to him, so I almost drop it.

"Most poetry always comes with so many... sad feelings, I'm not really about that."

I frown. "But don't you think that's beautiful? The way some people manage to convey their own emotions just with words?"

"It can be." The guy grins again.

"What do you mean?"

"Not everyone can do it, I guess. I can't, for example, though I sometimes wish I could. But I'm bad with words. Generally."

"Have you ever genuinely tried, though? No matter what other people's opinions on your writing is, I think everyone has the ability to write if they want to." I say, now back behind the counter.

The guy looks at me without saying anything, and something sparks up in his eyes that I can't identify. "Do you?" he then asks, and I froze. I don't like talking about it, the writing, mainly because usually people just laugh and stop taking me seriously.

So, "Yeah, maybe," was all I mumbled while scanning the book's barcode.

"Should've guessed," the man says and chuckles to himself quietly.  Always smiling.  "Sorry if I offended you in any way. I didn't mean it."

"What? No, you didn't, don't worry. Uh..." I turn my head to look at the stranger again. "Do you need a bag?"

"No, thanks. I'm good."

I frown once more. Why is that smile not vanishing from the guy's face? Is he just always smiling?

"Okay," I mutter, more to myself than anyone else.

Silence.

"So you read the book?" he then asks as if he hadn't already asked that two minutes ago, and I nod slightly in response. "It's one of my favourites."

"I should probably read it, then, hm?"

"I mean..."

He interrupts me, "You know what? I'm going to. I'll borrow it from Penny once she's done." He hands me some cash to pay for the book. I assume that Penny is probably the friend he's buying the book for.

I nod my head a bit. For some reason, this whole situation feels incredibly weird to me. He reminds me so much of one of the protagonists of the novel I am currently working on - Simon Snow. (I'm not sure if I'll let him keep that name. It sounds more like the kind of name the hero of a children's book series about wizards would carry, rather than a character from a serious contemporary young adult novel about love and the struggles of living on this godforsaken planet in the 21st century. But I like the name, and I like that it's an alliteration, so maybe I will let him keep it after all).

"What's your name?" I ask, and it doesn't really happen intentionally. The words just slipped out of my mouth, and I wish I could take them back. (But at the same time, I don't.)

"Simon," the man in front of me says and chuckles like my question endeared him.

I think my heart skipped a beat. No way. "Wha-" I stop myself. "Simon?"

"Yeah." And he's still smiling, even though he probably thinks I'm making a fool of myself. Which I am. But I'm trying my best not to lose my shit.

"Well, uh... Simon..." I pause. There's no way his name is actually Simon. "I hope your friend will like the book."

I smile awkwardly, and Simon chuckles. "I'm sure she will." 

Now, he's just standing there. Like he's waiting for something. Like he's waiting for me.

I mean, I am curious. I want to get to know this guy, this guy that seems to have jumped straight out of my imagination. (Well, or maybe not straight - nevermind, that joke is just too obvious.)

"So, uh, your friend enjoys poetry?"

This whole conversation is just awkward at this point.

"Yeah, a lot," he says and puts the book into his backpack.

"And... you? Do you... enjoy coffee?" I cringe a little at my own gracelessness. I really have no dignity left.

Simon looks at me now, his blue eyes meeting mine. Beautiful, beautiful eyes.

But, to my surprise, he answers, "Yeah, a lot. Especially when I'm having it with a cute date." He smirks. "If that is your way of asking me out?"

I am baffled. I can feel the blood rush under the skin of my cheeks. "If you want it to be," I mumble, mainly because I really wasn't sure. I don't really date people, mainly because I don't even believe love could work for me (because it never has). It is hook-ups and one night stands, but nothing more than that.

It's just that this guy fascinates me on a whole other level, and I would love to get to know more about him. 

"Thank God, this would've been so awkward otherwise." He says that as if this whole conversation wasn't awkward already. "I'll accept. When are you done with work?"

"Not before six, but my co-worker should be here in an hour, and I'm sure she won't mind if I leave her alone for a bit. She doesn't like me, anyway." I know I'm making a face while thinking of Jennifer.

Simon nods, still smiling. "Four? How does that sound?"

"Sounds good to me."

"Alright." He holds out his hand for me to shake, which is so ridiculous that I laugh a little. "I'll be back, Basilton."

The guy leaves the shop before I could say anything else.

How does he know my name?

It takes a while until I realise that Simon had probably just read the name tag pinned to my jumper.

❞ 

**hiraeth (n)** a homesickness for a home you can't return to, or that never was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing this mostly took me so long cause i couldn't decide whether i should write this in first or third person. i decided on first person to get more of a carry on-feel, and it's a bit difficult for me bc i'm not at all used to writing first-person stories anymore. but i like to think it's not THAT bad (i hope). i know that this character doesn't 100% act like baz as we know him from rainbow's books (and suddenly baz is the one who's friends with ebb and not simon lol) (also ebb is described differently i know) (forgive me), but please keep in mind that this is an au!! i hope you liked this chapter anyway. thanks for reading!


	3. serendipity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW // mention of: cigarettes, slight suicidal thoughts, burn scars

**serendipity //**

"So, Basilton, you're a poet, hm?" Simon sips on his tea, his eyes focused on... me.

"Please just call me Baz," I say, and then, "I... Well, I prefer prose, but - poetry isn't something I'm opposed to, I guess."

"I think it's nice that you write. Sometimes I wish I would." Simon is smiling again. He'd also been smiling when he saw me wait for him in front of the bookshop, and he kept smiling while we were walking here. Not in a creepy way. In a very, very friendly (and cute) way. "But I guess I've just had enough of it. I've had a horrible English teacher when I took this A-Level Literature class in school, and that ruined it all for me."

I put my cup down. "Oh, dear." 

"Yeah. It's sad."

It's silent for a few seconds, but it's not uncomfortable. I am the first to start talking again. "If you took A-levels, are you in uni now?"

Simon nodded. "Yeah, actually. But I'm not sure if what I'm doing is a good fit. I wasn't ever sure, but I kind of wanted a back-up plan, you know? But now I've only got the back-up plan and nothing else." He sighs almost inaudibly.

This whole inner conflict of his feels similar to the situation I put book-Simon in. I frown. I still can't believe that Simon and my own character share a name - I make a mental note to ask the real Simon for his surname as soon as it feels appropriate. Not because I think it might be Snow, but because for some reason I'm genuinely curious.

"Well, I seem to have neither, if that's of any comfort to you," I then sigh and sip on my tea again.

"So you're not in uni?"

"I was." I tattempt smiling a little, mainly to hide how I really feel about this topic. Trying to avoid his gaze, I suddenly realise that the tea in my cup is very interesting to look at. "But it was kind of pointless, in the end. I dropped out after a year."

"I'm sorry." He stops grinning, and he looks like he actually feels sorry for me. I didn't like this look on him; I had already grown too accustomed to his ever-smiling face.

"Don't be. It was my own choice, now I have to deal with it." Even though I might wish I didn't have to.

"Hm." He clearly doesn't know what to say, and I feel stupid for bringing this topic up in the first place. I should've known where it would lead.

We both sip on our teas. When we were standing in line earlier, Simon had confessed that he didn't actually like coffee that much and preferred tea. I agreed (I was brought up in a proper British household, after all), which seemed to satisfy him, so he went ahead and ordered a cuppa for each of us.

"So, what is it you're writing?" Simon asks, obviously trying to change the topic.

I blush, I can feel it. "Uh... well, mostly contemporary stories. A bit... well, more of the romantic kind, I guess." I feel a little awkward about this. A few hours ago, I'd never even met Simon before, and now we are already talking about something that was so personal to me.

"Oh, a romantic." Simon smirks. "Cute."

Cute. "Actually not. I guess. I mean... I don't really... believe in love."

He takes a second to consider my words, and then says, "What?"

"I... don't believe in love?" The way I say it makes it sound more like a question rather than a statement.

"You don't... believe in love." Yeah, that sounds more like a statement than when I said it.

"No, not in that way."

"You write stories about love when you don't believe in it?"

"I mean, Stoker wrote about vampires without believing in them. And Tolkien wrote about Hobbits and dragons, and neither of them thought any of those things were real."

"But... that's different."

"You think?"

He looks a little disturbed, and I can't blame him. It's not really an optimistic view of the world, and Simon seems to be the kind of guy that will try very hard in every situation to stay optimistic. "Love is an emotion. I mean - everyone feels it. Even if you're... I don't know, not attracted to anyone, you still love your family or your friends or... man, how can you not believe in love? That's like... Jesus Christ, are you a psychopath?"

"No," I laugh. Meanwhile, Simon looks genuinely concerned. "Of course love exists on the emotional level. I just don't think that this... this concept of loving someone... you know, that whole soulmate thing that Hollywood is trying to sell us? I don't think it makes sense. Affection and lust are obviously a thing, but I think what most people think of when they speak of love is just an illusion that doesn't really exist unless you tell yourself that it does and never question it."

Simon stared at me for a few seconds, which gives me the opportunity to appreciate the freckles all over his skin. There are so many of them, but somehow I still feel the urge to count them.

He stays silent for a few more moments, and then just mutters, "Wow. That's so... sad."

I smile, but I'm not sure it reaches my eyes. "They say ignorance is bliss."

"But that's not... No."

"No?"

"No," Simon says again, more confidently, and readjusts himself in his seat. "Love can be so... beautiful. I think it's the only thing people have left. It's love or hate, and most people choose wrong." He looks at me again, and there's determination sparking up in his eyes as if he's made it his mission to convince me I'm wrong.

"So you think I'm one of the bad guys? Choosing hate over love? " I say and giggle quietly to myself.

"No. You literally write about people being in love. That's about as cheesy as it gets." I laugh, and he pauses. "I mean, you have this vibe. Like, a bad guy-vibe. With the long black hair and the widow's peak and all that. But you blush all the time, and you struggle looking people in the eyes when they're talking to you. No offense, but you'd be a horrible bad guy. Unless you actually tried maybe. But... I don't know. I've just never really met someone with your point of view before."

"We're a rare breed. Cynics." I'm being sarcastic, but I'm not sure he gets it.

Simon stares at his tea, and it's silent.

I'm looking at him again - he was biting his lower lip, as if deeply lost in his own thoughts. Simon, did that, too. My Simon, I mean. The Simon that only existed in the pages I'd written on my computer, the Simon that apart from Ebb and I, no one even knew existed.

He looks at me again and catches me staring, but he doesn't seem to care. "But what do you think is the point of existence, then? If you can't love, then what is left?"

I sigh. "Nothing, pretty much. I don't think there's any point in existing."

"None at all?"

"Nope."

Simon is staring at me in disbelief. "Wow. That's..."

We both know what he wants to say, but he refrains from doing so, probably feeling it is inappropriate to call someone you've just met 'depressing'.

"I know." I try to smile but feel like I'm failing horrendously.

"Can I give you my number?"

That catches me off guard. "What?"

"I want to give you my number. And... maybe I can get yours, too?"

"Um... yeah, sure," I mumble, still surprised, but I can feel the stupid grin growing on my lips. He hands me his phone so I can enter my number. When I'm done, I give it back to Simon.

I watch him type something. "I sent you a text," he says, "so you have my number, too. I have to go now, but I'd really love to continue this conversation at some point."

He smiles a smile that makes me want to smile back, so I do. He's pretty. I think of book-Simon, and how this Simon literally looks like him. The blue eyes, the freckles, the messy bronze curls on his head. "There's no way you're real," I say quietly, realising too late how creepy that must sound, and not for the first time I'm wishing for a way to take words back.

Simon raises an eyebrow and laughs before he says, "Well, here I am. That's a bit of a strange thing to say, though." He gets up from his seat, giving me absolutely no time to explain myself, but to be honest, that probably would've made it worse. Instead, he says, "But I like strange. Everything else is a bit boring." I laugh in response and feel my cheeks blush a bit. Then I watch him put on his coat. "Sorry, I really have to go now. But I hope we'll meet again."

"Me too," I whisper, and I'm not sure if he heard.

Simon just smiles once again before exiting the coffee shop, leaving me alone with a cold cup of tea and a lot of confusion.

I check my phone for new messages and notice a message from an unknown number. Simon. Right, he said he would text me so I could get his number. 

And when I read the words, there's a weird feeling in my stomach that feels familiar but also not familiar at all, and I can't really identify it. I don't even realise I'm smiling until it actually makes me want to laugh.

I look at the message again. "you're cute :)"

I keep grinning until I leave the coffee shop to go back to work.

______________

The smoke escaping my lips kind of reminds me of ghosts, and it looks like they are whirling around in between the raindrops. White and hazy, and dancing. It hangs in the air for a short while before it vanishes.

I take another deep drag and exhale the smoke into the air, watching it disappear.

In my left hand, I am still holding the letter. They'd sent me an e-mail, too, but when I saw it in my inbox a few days ago I ignored it. I couldn't be bothered with another rejection. 

Dear Mr. Grimm-Pitch,  
thank you for your interest in our company and in working with us. After careful contemplation, we are sorry to tell you...

That's when I'd stopped reading. I know these letters by heart, at this point.

I've learnt to accept it, all of it - I've known for a long time that I'm a failure, and there isn't really much I could do about it anymore. It still is a disappointment, of course, but I don't dare to hope for anything at all anymore.

The only reason I keep trying is because Ebb convinced me to do so. "Most big authors got turned down by a ton of publishers before they made it somewhere," she always says, "I mean, look at Rowling and Harry Potter!"

It's a bit warmer than usual today, so I put the letter aside and pull up my shirt's sleeves, exposing the red burn scars on my forearm.

There were more on my upper arm and my torso, but they were less intense. I hate those scars. And I hate showing them in public, so I usually wear longsleeved jumpers or cardigans. I can't stand the faked sympathy on stranger's faces when they know nothing about me or my life.

It was an accident. But accident or not, the outcome is the same; my mother is dead, and I'm stuck with ugly scars to remind me of that fact constantly for the rest of my life.

The sun is warm, and I sigh. Though I like sitting here, on the rooftop of the apartment building, even if it was a little clichéd. Hardly anyone ever bothers coming up here, and if they do, we would just smoke together. Frankly, I think that's the best way to meet your neighbours (it's how I met Niall, my friend) because honestly, I don't really have another reason to talk to them at all.

I'm sat on the ledge - maybe people afraid of heights wouldn't appreciate this spot as much as I do. But In a way, this spot makes me feel powerful. It would be so easy to end everything... I don't. Because every time I sit up here, I decide not to.

I rise so I can stand on the low wall, closer to the ledge. I grab the letter, turn on my lighter, and start burning it. I throw it to the roof's floor and watch it burn for a bit longer before I turn to stare at the busy street underneath me. For a second I wonder what would happen if I fell. How would that red-haired lady with the dog react? Or the bus driver? Or the guy in the suit? Would they even care at all?

To be fair, they'd probably at least be shocked. I'd be shocked. I guess every sane person would be.

I mindlessly throw the remainder of my cigarette next to the remnant of the letter and step on it to burn it out with my sole - then I sigh, and make my way towards the stairs to return to my own four walls.

Frankly, I feel like shit. It is an okay-level of shit, though. A level I can deal with. Sometimes, when I feel like this, I write down how I feel. However, a lot of the times, I just let it eat me up from the inside. It feels easier this way. Easier than the times when I feel absolutely nothing.

A few years ago, I had started wondering whether my heart was made of stone. Not because I'm mean or repellent or anything like that, but simply because sometimes, I just... can't feel anything.

I feel broken.

There's something wrong with me, and I don't think anyone could fix it. But I got used to it, I guess. Maybe there isn't another way.

It gets worse at night. There isn't a place to escape to anymore when everything around me gets dark and silent, and my brain is exceptionally good at telling me I'm a worthless piece of shit when there's nothing else to think about. At night, I can't escape it. It takes me ages to fall asleep, so sometimes I get up again and write until I fall asleep on the sofa with my laptop in my lap.

But it's fine, sleep doesn't help much; it's an inherent tiredness that can't be healed by sleep, anyway. Trust me, I've tried.

I let myself fall onto the sofa, and mindlessly check my notifications. Two of them are annoying spam e-mails, but it's the third notification that draws my attention. 

**Simon** so, i was watching moulin rouge and then i thought about what you said about hollywood selling us this whole fake concept of love and now i'm upset. 

I snort and type a reply.  Whoops, sorry. I didn't mean to accidentally turn you into a heartless cynic, haha

It doesn't even take a minute for him to reply. 

**Simon** you better be sorry!! i love that movie! 

Rip.

He doesn't reply to that, so I get up and slowly walk towards my bed. My flat is tiny - basically everything except for the bathroom is in the same room - but I don't really mind it, even though most people would probably think I would. I grew up in a huge house. Basically a mansion. My bedroom was bigger than my entire flat. I was raised without ever having to face any financial struggles, but I lost access to it all once Dad had kicked me out and cut me off at 18. It was a whole mess. I was lucky to meet Ebb; she took me in until I could afford my own place. 

My phone chimes again which makes me jump. It's usually muted, but I must've accidentally turned the notification sounds back on. A smile creeps on my lips when I see another text from Simon.

**Simon**  
you wanna hang out tonight? we could watch rom-coms and you could tell me all the reasons why you hate them

I snort. Simon seems to be really hung up on the whole love thing, but it is a little endearing. I consider his invitation for a second but I have a feeling that Simon might have different expectations from this whole thing.  Us.  I mean, I think I've made my point of view very clear, however, I can't help but feel like he might hope to convince me otherwise.

What if he does?  I quickly shake that thought. Even if I was to somehow end up liking him, you know,  that  way, he probably wouldn't like me back as soon as he got a chance to really get to know me. I'm too much of a mess.

But he intrigues me. So much that I want to accept his invitation.

First of all, I don't hate rom-coms. I just don't necessarily think they're realistic,  I type, and then,  Also, sure, I'd love to hang out. 

**Simon**  
nice, at your place? i'll make sure to bring some movies and popcorn in exchange for an at least moderately comfortable sofa to sit on. or crisps if you prefer those.

Before I can reply, he had already sent another message. 

**Simon**  
i'll bring popcorn. idc if you prefer crisps, i'm craving popcorn. 

Lucky for me, I've never been a fan of crisps. I text him a quick  That's fine by me :) and my address, before I realise that my flat is a fucking mess and I should probably get started on cleaning up at least a little.

❞

**serendipity (n)**

the faculty or phenomenon of finding valuable or agreeable things not sought for.


End file.
